Irking
by The Doors Of Perception
Summary: All is well with Bernard Black, until Fran drops a bomb on him that shatters his very foundations. Will he be able to do the unthinkable and put his selfishness aside for her happiness? Finally complete.
1. Psychopath, I

Uh, hi. (; This is my first fanfic, and respectively, I chose one of my favourite sitcoms; the remarkable Black Books.  
_  
Disclaimer_; I don't own Black Blooks, nor do I own any of the characters. Though I would like to. Very much. (;

- - - - - - - - - -

As the mid-morning sun silently glistened overhead, shining down on the bustling London streets of Bloomsbury; car exhaust fumes spiralled gracefully upwards, disgruntled office workers passing by the charming rows of shops crouched low to the curb, far-off sirens wailing relentlessly.

From the grotty window of "the shop that time forgot", Manny watched passers-by curiously, scratching at his wheat-coloured beard with the edge of a leather-bound edition of _Great Expectations_, party because he knew no-one was going to buy the bloody thing, and partly because he had previously broken the spine earlier in the week, and hadn't had the courage to tell Bernard yet. In fact, Manny kept a personal hoard of things he had broken around the shop, rather than face up and confront his sociopathic employer, chose to distract him with booze and shiny things on numerous occasions.

"Bernard!" Glancing at his wristwatch, he noticed it was half eleven; frantically, he left the book and dust-cloth on the window cil, and, with his fascinating hunched-skip, went to check on Bernard's breakfast; two rashers of bacon, a cup of black coffee and a bowl of fermenting orange juice. As soon as his back was turned, the familiar wheezing and heavy footsteps clattering came from the stairwell. A mumbled torrent of abuse spilled from the man's lips as he appeared, dishevelled as usual, a comb stuck within his black locks, dressed in his stained black jacket, his sour expression matched the kitchen appropriately.

"Good morning Bernard," Manny chirped, spooning the rashers of bacon on to a relatively-clean saucer; in his housewife manner, he swept in front of Bernard, pulling the chair out for him to sit on, and laying out the breakfast daintily.

For effect, Manny had also gone to the trouble of putting a freshly cut daisy in a emptied whiskey bottle, and straightened out the grubby table-cloth. Ignoring him, Bernard, mistaking the flower for a Kleenex, wiped his nose with it and threw it over his shoulder.

"Good? What exactly makes it good? The only good morning I ever had was when I realised I hadn't drank all the wine from the night previously, and I was still thoroughly disappointed," Came the disgruntled reply, as Bernard, ever the optimist, stuffed an unlit cigarette into his mouth.

"Well, did you have a good night, at least?" Manny continued, unfazed, hovering around the kitchen, dabbing at various surfaces with the corner of his Haiwain shirt. Bernard coughed, mockingly, and imitated him.

"_Did you have a good night, at least? _Listen to you! Lamps, outrageous clothes, mysterious people who call you on my phone, excess facial hair! This is all Changing Room's fault, they've made you this way!"

"What way?" Manny asked, genuinely bemused. He stood, self-consciously, as Bernard let rip on his first rant of the day.

"You with your socks and sandals, your moronic baby-face and your sociability! You might as well work as a motivational speaker, or worse! A personal shopper to old ladies in Debenhams," Bernard threw his hands up for emphasis.

"Television and friends have made you strange, Manny. One day soon, I'll find a _lilac tank-top _in with the laundry, and my book shop will be filled with people with.. with.. social lives!"

Manny fidgeted, unsure of what to say. Bernard sighed, slumping in his seat, turning his attention to the breakfast table. He studied the plate for a moment, then gaped, horrified.

"..What's the matter?" Manny asked, leaning in anxiously.

"What is this disgusting shrivelled by-product? Are you trying to kill me? I've told you a thousand times, all meat must be entirely unkosher! Look at this thing, it's practically spinning a dreidal and singing Hava Nagila," Bernard barked, slamming his fist down.

Before Manny had time to protest, Bernard's breakfast was splattered across the opposite wall. The Irishman smiled, satisfied, swiping a bottle of wine from the table and disappearing through the curtain that divided the filthy kitchen from the equally filthy shop.

Sighing, Manny swept back his mane of flowing hair, and went to get his prying spatula.

While Bernard took his usual seat behind his desk, faintly irritated at finding his wine glass had stuck to the table surface overnight, pointedly ignoring the steady throng of brave customers mooching around the dust-leaden shelves, he lit his sodden cigarette.

Running a hand through his nest of matted hair, he picked up an open book from his desk, some second edition Fowles, holding a slightly sticky wine glass in the other, and for a while, contently alternated between drags on his cigarette and swigs of wine.

"Bernard! Manny! Boys!" A sudden female shriek and the slam of the shop door made him jump, ultimately swallowing his cigarette down with his wine. Eyes-wide, Bernard watched helplessly as Fran, his skittish, and barely sane female friend, burst in to the shop.

They had been friends since Bernard had moved to London, and despite one drunken encounter spent together (which Fran had always thought he had forgotten), they had managed, amazingly, to stay friends. Still, it was safe to say that they shared an unspoken attraction to one another, and Bernard felt, at times, a little irking once in a blue moon, that there might be a chance with her. The thought was always diminished, however, as Bernard was forced to sit through gruesomely awkward "man" conversations with whichever man Fran had picked up when the time suited her.

Manny, who had just emerged from the curtain and had witnessed Bernard swallowing his cigarette, watched in fascinated horror; he barely registered when Fran collided with him and he tumbled over, whacking his head on the skirting board.

Bernard opened his mouth to laugh, woozily rocking forward in his chair, but all that left his mouth was a long gust of grey smoke; he collapsed shortly, landing directly on top of a recovering Manny.

"What are you two laying about for?" Fran yelled gleefully, poking her head from behind the curtain, shaking a bottle of £5.64 wine at them. "I've got bloody great news!"

Bernard rolled off Manny, coughing up the put-out cigarette, groaning.

"It must be great, you never spent more than four quid on wine unless it's the second coming of Jesus. Manny, get the holy glasses,"

- - -

Thanks for reading. ;) The next chapter will be comming soonish.


	2. Violent Tendencies

Once Manny's head had stopped bleeding, and Bernard had gradually coughed off the sizzling remnants of his cigarette, Fran sat them both down at the kitchen table, propping them up cautiously like stiff rag dolls, all the while chatting away to them, giggling.

Tugging the bottle of wine away from her, Bernard was struggling to unscrew the cork with his teeth. Infuriated, in one burst of energy, he simply bit the neck off, spitting it out on to the floor, thus shattering it. Manny looked on, astonished, while Fran suddenly cackled to herself, obviously undeterred.

"Who's minding the shop?" Bernard demanded, pouring himself a generous glass, craning his neck round and peering at an elderly woman whom was picking at a pile of books on his desk. "You there, Grandma Death, stay away from that pile! Go look in the interfering old bat section, there may be something there for you to read before you die. Better make it quick, though,"

The old woman looked up, her expression at first surprised, then, as realisation set in, returned Bernard's acrid creased frown.

"Up yours, ugly!"

As Bernard rose furiously from his chair, shaking the partly broken bottle and spilling wine on his shirt front, his elbow was expertly caught by Fran, who was, unbelievably, still talking, and pulled back in to his seat.

"Fran, I think we're having trouble understanding you," Manny said, holding a pack of frozen peaces to his forehead. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to oneside.

"Was that last part in Arabic, or Klingon?"

"This is just fantastic. Excuse me a moment while I travel back in time and punch my father in the balls," Bernard muttered, slamming his wine glass down.

"Listen, enough of this drivel. You, the bearded child, make me some tea, and possibly cut it with cyanide. You, woman, stop talking, you're giving my headache a headache. Soon you will cause a epidemic of super headaches, and everyone will decapitate themselves and there will be much misery all because of-- ..Hey, are you listening to me?"

Grudgingly, Manny stood up from the table, and, limping across the kitchen, flicked the kettle on, going through the cupboards for a tea bag that was earwig-free. Fran stopped, looking at him with gentle brown eyes, a wide grin plastered on her face.

Even in his permanent bad mood, Bernard couldn't help but let slip a tiny smile at seeing her so pleased.

"Pink wafers or Nice biscuits?" Manny asked, glancing over, hair thrown over his shoulder.

"Neither, both of them give me scurvy," Bernard replied, hoarsely.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Milk, no sugar. No, wait, sugar, no milk, no, sugar, milk.." Bernard sighed, running a hand through his hair, regretting asking for the wretched drink in the first place.

"Just make the bloody tea,"

"Oh, Bernard, it's brilliant!" Fran interjected, distracting him. "It's amazing! It's utterly fantastic! I can't believe this is happening to me!"

"Let me guess," Bernard slumped indignantly in his chair, leafing through his pockets for another cigarette, despite his previous trauma.

"You finally realised that your existence is completely worthless without me, and you've decided to get dressed properly, for once?"

"You know that man I've been dating recently?" Fran gushed, rounding her shoulders inwardly, completely dismissing Bernard's drawl.

Manny stooped, placing three mugs of dishwater tea in front of them, the bag of frozen peas attached to his head with a dishcloth. Bernard jabbed at the bag spitefully, making Manny wince.

"Oh, yes, the one who manages a supermarket?" Manny asked, rubbing his head tenderly with his palm, taking a seat next to her. Fran nodded delightedly.

"Yes! Him!"

"Who is this person?" Bernard bawled, irritably lighting a crumpled cigarette.

"I've never heard of any person who runs that place where you want to go to get food for when you are hungry. I always send Manny!"

"I've been seeing Brian for over five months, Bernard," Fran blinked.

"Brian?" Bernard snorted, gesturing with his hands. "What sort of name is Brian? I bet this ones actually on a register. Manny, five quid says he is,"

"Uh, Bernard--"

"Shut up, it's a lovely name," Fran scowled, swatting at him playfully.

"Forget about his name, what is this news that you so rudely woke me up for?"

Sighing, Bernard squeezed the bridge of his nose. Though he had never told Fran, he always bristled with jealousy whenever she spoke about other men, which was an awful lot.

Same went for Manny, but _that_ was another entirely complex matter.

Fran took a deep breath, clasping her hands together. Rolling his eyes, Bernard lifted his wine glass to his lips.

"He's asked me to marry him!"

Spluttering, Bernard managed to spray Manny entirely with wine, much to his distress, as he didn't even have to time to close his mouth.


	3. Bones Of You

"_Married?_"

Both men stared at the beaming woman, quite stunned and very much drenched in cheap, rank wine that was most likely going to stain Manny's vibrant shirt a murky red. Dabbing his face desperately, coughing once or twice (unpleasantly, the taste of ash rolled around his tongue, almost making him retch, as the wine had already been swished around Bernard's mouth), a clumsy hand feeling his scalp in bewilderment.

After a few intensely silent moments, Fran began tugging absently at a loose thread at the hem of her periwinkle-blue blouse, her smile receding, glancing nervously between the two.

A soft splash echoed in the kitchen, as Bernard's cigarette slipped from his parted lips, landing directly in his wine glass. Grimly, he pushed it away, no longer wanting a drink.

For once.

"Don't you think that's brilliant?" Fran asked meekly.

Before Bernard had time to object, Manny stood up, a broad grin adorning his bearded face, applauding.

"Congratulations, Fran, you've bagged yourself a normal!" he said with a cheerful laugh, patting her shoulder with calm reassurance, guiding her anxious gaze away from Bernard.

"This calls for the good wine!"

"Thank you Manny," Fran smiled warmly at him, biting at her lower lip, pointed chin lifted. "We have a good wine?"

"I was saving it for an emergency, but news _this_ good calls for a wine to go with!"

Chuckling, Manny reached up on to the top shelf of the cupboards, bringing down a small wooden chest and wiping off the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on its surface. Taking a key that hung around his neck on a thin silver chain, he slowly unlocked the box, gently lifting the lid to reveal a pristine green bottle of red wine.

"Wow," Fran murmured as Manny handed it to her, fishing fresh glasses from the drawer. "Twelve pounds. Classy."

Whilst this conversation took place, Bernard was quietly musing over ways to kill Manny with the blunt end of a Biro, and perhaps a pair of salad tongs, when he suddenly exploded with misplaced rage.

"Fran, I've known you a long time, and me and Genghis here" - a briefly annoyed glance from Manny - "both know you're a bit soft in the head, but this will _not_ get you any sane points at the asylum!" he roared, flinging his arms out beside him to somehow convey his anger.

Manny and Fran exchanged odd glances.

"Bernard, calm down--" Manny began.

"_You?_ Getting _married?_ How long will it be until they see what a complete maniac you are? It won't be long! There are never any prolonged intervals of sanity when it comes to you!"

"You're hardly the one to talk about being a maniac, Bernard, just look at yourself! Look at your shop!" Fran snapped back, crushed.

"It's not my fault I'm like this! I'm society's outcast, a lone soldier, an anarchic God of urban alienation!"

"No, Bernard," Fran sighed, tiredly plucking at her soft, dark curls, cursing herself for having brought it up in the first place.

"You're just a lonely man with no hope. Why can't you just be _happy_ for me?"

"I can't be, you're not supposed to be with a normal person! When do I get to meet this man, hm? When do I get to shake him by the hand, and possibly throttle him in the mean time?"

"Look, I have to go. Thanks for the wine,"

Turning to Manny, Fran shakily unsheathed her coat from the back of her chair, sliding over her slim shoulders with urgency. Picking her bag up from the table with quivering hands, she stalked through the curtains, battling to keep the tears from welling in her eyes, her lips trembling. Standing up, Manny looked at Bernard helplessly, whom was glaring resentfully at Fran's departing figure.

By this time, there was no-one in the shop, just the messy scattering of books and a few cigarette butts littered around the floor, which were almost certainly Bernard's. Fran didn't stop, even when she slipped on a mound of paperbacks.

"Fran, wait!" Manny skipped after her, gently resting a hand on her arm, as she laid hers on the door. She looked at him, her eyes glistening, silently pleading with him to let her go.

"When _is _the wedding?" He persisted, glancing over his shoulder at a petulant Bernard, who was stood hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, black hair wildly clinging to his cheeks, having run his grubby hands through it a thousand times, glaring at them both.

"Three months," Fran said, an edge to her tone, casting a warning look at Bernard. He stopped glaring abruptly, his unpleasant grimace dissolving; he looked as if he were about to be sick, his eyes screwed up with the distinct impression of pain. Bemused, his fingers brushed at his chest, a sharp pain coursing through it. Manny nodded, looking at the floor, and without another word, opened the door for her to leave.

"You're making a mistake," Bernard called, with no trace of sympathy or guilt, sculpted to appear impenetrable.

"The only mistake I made was meeting you, Bernard Black," Fran replied, a tear dribbling down her cheek, turning away and, composing as much dignity as she could muster, fled to the safety of the packed streets outside. Manny closed the door with a soft click, discreetly flipping the "closed/closed" sign to the "closed" side. He turned back to his employer, housemate and, in some sort of perverse way, his friend.

Bernard had already taken his usual seat at the head of the shop, arms folded, chin rested dutifully atop his arms as a makeshift pillow, black fringe stuck to his forehead with a cold sweat, peering at the squalor of the shop.

"What now?" Manny asked delicately, wandering over and perching on the side of the desk, rocking his sandelled foot in midair.

"Make me some dinner, something simple. Perhaps a little Coq Au Vin. Or a takeaway curry. Whichever comes first," Bernard muttered.

"I meant about Fran,"

"What about her?" Bernard sniped, rooting through the bottom drawer of his desk for a handful of notes, stuffing them in to the pockets of his jacket.

"If she wants to ruin her life, let her do so. It's none of our concern,"

"But Bernard--"

"Quiet," he snapped, getting up from his desk and heading for the front door. "I'm going out for a while. Mind the shop."

The harsh slam of the door made Manny jump slightly, as the filthy windows rattled from the sudden impact. Sighing, Manny looked at the calendar hung slightly crookedly on a wall behind the desk. Approaching it, he tenderly flicked through the colourful images of kittens and puppies, all of which Bernard had drawn tiny black moustaches on in permanent marker.

"Three months," he murmured, shaking his head. "Not long at all."


	4. Joy Division

A week had passed since the row in the shop had knocked all the misanthropy and spite out of the infamous Bernard, who had come down with a very bad case of, what he liked to call, "Schröinger's cat syndrome" and lately, Manny had begun to worry about him, not only about his health (which was less than fantastic to begin with) but his mental state.

For seven straight days, not a cross word had crossed his bitten lips, no insults, no procrastinations; in fact, all Bernard seemed to do was just sit in his room playing his records, or read in a secluded corner of the shop.

At first, it was pure heaven. Finally, Manny could walk around the flat in anything he wanted; on the first Tuesday, he had served customers wearing a snug-fitting T-shirt he bought at Glastonbury in '91, with original grass stains on the back, and a pair of corduroy trousers he hadn't worn since '87, finished off with a pair of Ray Bands.

He could play Rainbow and Survivor as loud and as long as he wanted with no hollers of protest, eat when he wanted, do what he wanted.

But after a while, when Bernard hadn't surfaced from his room for days, hadn't even touched the wine Manny had left outside his door, he began to fret.

There was only one person Manny knew of that had any form of influence over Bernard, and they were the currently reason for him being in this state in the first place.

As much as Manny disliked being pushed around by him, it felt odd to be the one giving the orders. Bernard was dismissive, barely responsive and, the thing that disturbed Manny most of all, had even started bathing again.

"Bernard?" Manny called as he entered the empty shop, nudging the door shut with his foot and laying down the bag of treats he had bought for Bernard in an effort to cheer him up.

The lights were all off again, and from upstairs a distinct rattle of the window panes indicated one thing; Bernard was playing his records again.

Heading upstairs, the music faintly pouring the otherside of Bernard's door became clearer, and Manny just about made out the first few lines:

_When routine bites hard,  
And ambitions are low,  
And resentment rides high,  
But emotions won't grow,  
And we're changing our ways,  
Taking different roads.._

"Bernard!" Manny yelled over the music, hammering on the door with a balled fist. "Bernard, please come out, it's been days! Your vitamin D levels must nonexistent by now! _Bernard!_"

"Go away," a disgruntled voice replied weakly from just behind the door; a soft thump as he moved across the floor to turn up the volume.

_You cry out in your sleep,  
All my failings exposed  
And there's a taste in my mouth,  
As desperation takes hold  
Just that something so good  
Just can't function no more.._

"Bernard, you can't stay in your room listening to Joy Division forever! You'll go strange! _Please_ come out!"

"Just watch me," came the muffled response, as Manny rested his ear against the door, he heard Bernard genially mumbling the lyrics.

"Ber-nard! You've got to come out! Come on, you're acting like a teenager!"

"No-one understands me," Bernard wailed, beating his fist against the door. With a tremendous crack the music stopped and all that was left were muffled whimpers.

"I'm all alone in this world!"

"Bernard," Manny crooned softly through the keyhole, settling down on his knees, the carrier bag bundled in his hands.

"Please come out. Everything will seem better once you come out, I promise. Look, I've got Kindereggs!"

A brief silence, then the scrape of boots on bare flooring, a rusting key turning in a lock, and suddenly the door swung open, and the pale, creased face of Bernard Black was squinting at him. His hair, still wet from a recent shower, hung limply below his ears and dripped on to the lapels of his suit.

"Alright," Bernard mumbled sheepishly. "But you have to build the toy, those things are too small and infuriating."

Nodding, Manny smiled, and escorted him down the stairs, sitting him at his desk with a fresh pile of books, arranged by colour of the cover, out on his desk, to form a rainbow pattern.

"Look Bernard, I thought it might cheer you u--"

Bernard knocked them in to the wastepaper bin without a second thought, instinctively reaching for the telephone to call Fran.

"Never-mind," Manny muttered, shuffling off to hang up his tan leather jacket.

Bernard was half-way through dialing Fran's number, before he stopped, his finger stabbing at the buttons in autopilot, the obnoxious dial tones ringing systematically in his ears. Before he could stop himself, he had dialed the last digit, and now the ominous rings echoed down the receiver. After two rings, she picked up; her voice struck him cold.

"Hello, Fran Katzenjammer, soon to be Fran Blake speaking," her gentle voice made his throat sense, and his head throb with rage; _Brian Blake?_ This had to be a joke.

Some of kind of sick, marauding joke. One that Bernard himself might have, at one point, found funny.

"Hello? Hello?"

Breathing heavily, Bernard cupped the receiver to his mouth, closing his eyes in frustration.

"Hello?" Fran repeated, then, much more quietly, holding the phone close to her mouth:

".._Bernard?_ Bernard, is that you?"

"Mother of god, woman, _why_ is it so hard to talk to you over the phone," Bernard muttered, rubbing his temples with his palm, both slick with sweat.

"Bernard, I made you some tea, except we didn't have any tea, so I made you coffee," Manny said, lumbering out from the kitchen, holding two mugs of piping hot liquid. Frantically, Bernard lay the receiver down quickly in its cradle, scratching the nape of his neck. He grumbled a muted response and took a hasty mouthful of coffee, burning his tongue.

"Who were you on the phone to?" Manny asked, resuming his scrubbing off the shelves, complete with marigold yellow rubber cloves and an apron with "Domestic Goddess" written across the bust in curled italic lettering.

"No-one important. Did you get my medicine at the shops?"

"Ah, yes, well, here's the thing.. they don't actually have medicine for Schröinger's cat syndrome. The lady at the Pharmacy said it didn't even exist,"

"Philistines," Bernard remarked grudgingly, unwrapping a glazed chocolate egg.

"Why do you call it that, anyway?" Manny asked.

"As far as I'm concerned, I'm both or/and neither dead or/and alive at the same time,"

Manny stared at him blankly, hands squeaking as he ran them over the front of the plastic apron.

"In other terms," Bernard sighed, popping a shard of chocolate in to his mouth.

"I'm trapped in this shop with a noxious gas, in this case, ignorance, and you're the flask threatening to smash and kill me altogether,"

"And so what does that mean..?"

"Don't break anything, what else do you think it means?"


	5. The Crazy Persuasion

"I'm glad you could come, Manny,"

Two of them, sat in a corner table of a vibrant central London bistro, the comforting sound of other humans conversation and laughter around them, made the meeting a tad more intimate than Manny had hoped for, but he had read somewhere that females (especially those of the crazy persuasion) often needed a thing called "closure".

And seeing as Fran could be just as anti-social as Bernard when she wanted, Manny seemed the only available option. Clasping his hands, fingernails digging in to his slightly furry knuckles, a fragile smile crept across her lenient features.

This was the first thing she had said since his arrival twenty minutes ago; since ordering their meals, they said in, what Fran thought was, comfortable silence, while Manny nervously folded his napkin in to interesting patterns, tearing a shred off every so often to arrange pictures with.

Flicking his eyes toward her, he inspected her closely; in all honesty, she looked awful. Smudged purple rings framed her watery brown eyes, the smile barely touching her gaze. Short hair tucked behind her ears, underbrushed, it seemed to stick up in little dark tufts, which was only made worse as she toyed with it anxiously.

"Well, it's the least I could do," Manny replied, nonchalantly attempting to free his mildly blue fingers from her vice-like grasp.

She held on, relentlessly, taking a large gulp of white wine.

"No, I mean it, this means a lot," Fran patted his wrist, nodding over-enthusiastically. "Brian just thinks it's nerves, for the wedding,"

"And.. I take it it's not?"

"Um, well, part of it is. The good part is worrying about the wedding. The bad part is worrying about.." She trailed off, spotting a dark-haired man reading at the table across from them.

Manny followed her gaze, shaking his head dutifully, tensing his hand to attract her attention; blinking, she glanced at him, a curiously absent expression blossoming in her eyes, her brow furrowed in thought. The hope that had sparked in her eyes when she spotted the man was almost heartbreaking.

"Bernard?" Manny asked delicately, keeping his voice low, wisps of hair bouncing around his oval-shaped head as he wriggled, quite uncomfortable, in his chair.

After a slight hesitation, Fran nodded, chewing the hangnail on her thumb.

"That's naughty, isn't it?"

Manny opened his mouth to reply, but all that tumbled out was a breathless "maybe". A keen waiter swept past, dishing their meagre portions of food out in front of them, topping up their glasses. His professional cool was broken, however, as Fran suddenly burst in to tears, making the waiter jump and spill half the bottle of wine into Manny's lap.

Groaning, Manny dabbed helpless at himself, alternating between sympathetic shoulder pats and ringing out his trousers.

"Why does everything have to be this rubbish?" she wailed, face buried in cushion of flesh, taking Manny's already damp sleeve and blowing her nose on it. Too polite to comment, Manny smiled wanly, folding his cuff over to hide the trails of snot, attempting to console his sobbing friend whilst receiving disgraced looks from the rest of the diners.

"Fran, please don't cry," Manny whimpered, desperately offering her a wad of crumpled napkins. "Things are not as bad as you think they are, really,"

"What are you talking about? My fiancée is perfect, my dress is amazing, and the venue is gorgeous," Fran sniffled, balling the napkins and holding them close to her mouth, muffling her speech.

"So what's the problem?"

"Everything! It's so.. perfect! Bernard's always been the one to rain on anything good that happens to me, but I've always had the knowing that our friendship was like an umbrella," Fran sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"Now there's no rain, and probably no umbrella too, I feel I might get.. sun burnt,"

"That's a rather good analogy, Fran," Manny said, surprised.

"I stole it off an advert," she muttered sullenly, now finished crying, poking at her dismally green salad with a fork, swirling the shreds of lettuce around her plate with the tongs of her fork. Her other hand was wound firmly around her wine glass, hovering it under her nose, taking large mouthfuls.

"Still, it works in this case," Since Manny's food had also gone cold, a bowl of curiously orange soup with a variety of bread mounds floating on the surface, he stuck to sipping his glass of brandy. The atmosphere in the bistro had considerably dimmed, as outside the large architectural windows darkened as the afternoon was drawing to a close. Amid the noise of Fran playing with her food, a sharp pain shot through Manny's temples, and as he expected by the burst of pain, "Don't Stop Believing" began to play, muted, from his pocket.

"Just a minute, Fran," Manny slipped out his phone, holding it to his ear, a finger stuck in the other. "Hello?"

"Manny! You poor excuse for a weevil! I sent you out for a video centuries ago! Where are you?" An infuriated Irish growl came from the other end.

"I've been sat here watching Countdown for three hours, and I'm starting to think that Countdown doesn't last this long,"

Eyeing Fran uneasily, Manny attempted to muffle Bernard's howls of anger by pressing the phone close to his face, giving her a weak reassuring smile. Raising an eyebrow, puzzled, Fran put down her fork and watched Manny expectantly, her arms folded.

"Oh, h-hello, uh.. Danny," Closing his eyes, Manny prepared for a barrage of verbal abuse. "Yeah, I saw it, a right belter. Didn't they get knocked out of the round?"

"Have you gone _completely insane?!_ I am Bernard, _Ber-nard_, and you happen to be the billy goat who fills my life with misery!" - a brief, disgruntled pause -"..you've been at those envelopes again, haven't you? If I find any stamps on you when you get home, by God, the--"

"Yes, I'd love to go for drinks with you and Jean sometime.. Friday sound okay?" Manny laughed, indicating to the phone and rolling his eyes, grinning. Fran cocked an eyebrow.

"Manny! If you don't start listening _right now_, I assure you, you'll be cleaning shelves with your tongue, I'll use your limbs to make display stands! Maybe even post-modern art!"

"Really? A little girl you say? Bless, be sure to pass on a good word from me, heh,"

_"LISTEN TO ME, YOU.. YOU.. MANNY, I WILL SLAY YOU BEFORE YOU HAVE THE CHANCE TO--"_

"Uh, Manny, why can I hear shouting on the other end?" Fran asked, lowering her head to peer in to Manny's twitching face, a trickle of sweat rolling down his forehead.

"Who's there? There's someone there, isn't there? You bastard! You spun me in to this web of lies, just to get out of the house! _You just lost your walking privileges!_" Bernard yelled, incredulous.

"Bernard?" Fran answered, leaning over the table, knocking over Manny's bowl of soup with a stray elbow, grappling the phone out of Manny's sweaty palm. "Bernard!"

"Oh, bollocks to this," the faint reply crackled from the speaker, and the phone went dead.

Fran sat down heavily in her chair, slapping the phone on the table, her hand clutched around it for a long while.

"I need something alcoholic and chocolate smothered," she sighed, eventually.

Manny stared guiltily at the tiled floor, the unpleasant sensation of cold soup running down the inside of his trouser leg his punishment. For now.


	6. Another Bell Jar

Ambling through the wooden doorway, Manny feebly rubbed at the grotty windows with the sleeve of his jacket, reluctantly entering the shop on tiptoe. As he closed the door quietly, the shop apparently being Bernard-free for the moment, he noticed, groaning, that he was dripping an interesting mixture of cheap wine and soup on to the floor.

Glancing around, he discreetly took off his trousers, folding them carefully over his forearm, shuffling towards the kitchen. A trip wire, stretched out between the rows of shelves, lay in wait for him, and Manny, oblivious, walked straight in to the complex trap that had been set up in the hours he had been gone.

His ankle snagged the wire, setting off a series of pulleys which hoisted up a net which he had missed in contrast to the disgusting carpet. Manny cried in surprise as he was suddenly plucked from the floor, enclosed in the net, trouser-less.

"Bernard!" Manny cried, flailing his arms. "Bernard! Put me down! You know I'm afraid of nets! Bernard! I have a dolphin complex! _Bernard!_"

Like a deranged puppet, Bernard appeared from behind his desk, his hair a torrent of dark locks and flecks of dusts, armed with a bayonet half-submerged in the folds of his jacket.

"There you are, you traitor," he growled, circling Manny slowly, prodding him sharply with the bayonet every so often. Stopping, he did a double-take, raising his eyebrows. "Where are your trousers?"

"..I got soup on them," Manny admitted, a rosy tint to his cheeks as his spindly, furry legs dangled vulnerably at the edge of the net, slipping through the holes.

Bernard mooched around the shop, sticking white labels with the word "traitor" and "bastard" printed in smudged black scrawl all over the shelves, knowing fully that scrubbing off sticky label marks are one of Manny's pet hates. Helplessly, Manny crossed his legs, nervously twiddling his thumbs, awaiting a violent prod from the bayonet. _Where did he even get a bayonet?_

Studying the Irishman closely through the squares in the net with gentle eyes, Manny was quite surprised to see that Bernard's eyes were raw and puffy, the sleeves of his jacket were darkened around the cuffs from swabbing up liquid.

"Bernard.. you haven't been.. _crying_, have you?" Manny asked with uncertainty, as if he couldn't believe he was asking the question. Intently, he leaned forward, watching a mixture of expression contort on his employer's face.

"Me? _Crying?_ Ha, ha ha ha ha!" Bernard grimaced, weaving through the mounds of books, sticking a grubby finger in Manny's face. "Who do you think I am, Sylvia Plath?"

"It's okay to cry, Bernard, people cry all the time. Even real estate agents cry,"

"Says you, deranged garden gnome, you cry when you stub your toes in the bath,"

"It's easily done! And it was the little one an-- Wait, how do you know I stubbed my toe in the bath?"

"Never-mind. I haven't been crying. Crying is for children's television presenters and people in advertising," Bernard remarked, turning his back to Manny, checking his reflection in the window.

"You're missing the point," Manny replied flatly, giving up at picking at the net, accepting the fact there was probably no way out of the trap.

"You are the one missing the point. You were fraternising with the enemy. Franternizing," Swigging from a bottle of dark wine, Bernard wandered around the shelves, once-or-twice picking up an out of place book, holding it to his cheek, and hurling it over his shoulder, dangerously close to the net.

"She's not the enemy, Bernard," Manny sighed, pulling a shred of carrot from behind his ear. "She's hurt, just the same as you. She wants to talk to you, Bernard. She wants to be friends,"

"Well I don't want to be friends with psychopathic women who.. who are not very nice to me,"

"Fran's your oldest friend, you should at least give her a chance to make up with," Manny replied, noticing the dark patches of unidentified mould growing on the ceiling for the first time and gaping in horror.

"Maybe Gandalf is right," Bernard murmured, sitting down in his chair, eyeing the phone. "And it sickens me to admit it. Look at me. I have one argument and I'm drowning myself in alcaholic piss and sticking my head in the oven,"

"Just talk to her, Bernard. She'll understand," Pausing, Manny swung his legs aimlessly, tilting his head on an angle. "Will you let me down?"

Nodding vaguely, looking in the other direction, Bernard yanked a rope that hung behind his chair, and at once, Manny was released. He yelped as he hit the floor, uttering a muffled "thank you", dragging himself up by the aid of the adjacent table, toppling over a cautiously stacked pile of books. Rubbing his head with his palm, he picked a book up by the spine, blinking. He looked at Bernard, who in turn was hovering his hand over the phone, sucking on the end of a cigarette. Sensing Manny's curious stare, Bernard glanced up, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes?" he asked sarcastically, any sympathy that may have glimmered through his dark shell had completely evaporated, and all that was left was the tousle-haired man eyeing Manny with pure contempt.

"I was just wondering why all this romance novels were stacked here," Manny gestured to the collapsed pile of books. "I'm sure I shelved these this morning,"

Eyes-widening, Bernard stubbed out the cigarette, discreetly pulling his propped-up feet off the desk and staring at his bearded companion.

"Are you insinuating what I think you are?" he scowled, the bayonet tucked under his armpit, waving the tip in a threatening manner.

"I was just asking a question--"

"You think I, of all people, would read this brainless slush?"

"Well, this one has 'Property of Bernard Black' written in the inlay," Manny commented, holding up the book for Bernard to see. Blushing, Bernard quickly got up from his desk and snatched it away from him.

"Someone has obviously planted it here for a cruel joke," Bernard muttered, tucking it in to his inside pocket when Manny wasn't looking. In that moment, Manny realised his legs were bare, and, blushing, made his excuses and shuffled through the curtain. He reappeared minutes later wearing a pair of ill-fitting denim shorts, and sitting himself down beside Bernard, clasped his hands together, absently looking around the shop.

"Have you decided what you're going to do, then?" Manny asked, tentatively pinching at his beard, bristling the hairs on his chin.

"You'd better not have fleas again," Bernard warned, timidly laying his hand on the phone. "And yes, I have,"

"Oh?" Manny's rounded face beamed with hope, a little surprised. "And what's that, then?"

"I'm going to sit here and wait until Fran is prepared to deliver her apology," Bernard announced, sitting back with his hands on his stomach, smiling.

Exasperated, Manny buried his face in his hands, muttering partially muffled profanity whilst Bernard quietly polished off the rest of the wine.


	7. April Fool

Unusually soft morning light broke wistfully through the windows of the deserted shop, as the fluffy haired book-keeper roamed genially, weaving around carefully arranged display stands, occasionally tweaking at the radio on the desk, intent on playing Kate Bush tracks.

Smiling, Manny went over the shelves, half-hearted, dabbing a cloth at the edges of the most filthy ones. Striding over to the calendar, he flipped the Groucho Marx kitten over, to give way to the stern Russian bunny rabbit of April.

He scanned down the rows of boxes, silently noting the dates in his head; he spotted the red ring at the bottom of the page, the box circled three times in magic marker. He sighed, pinning the calendar back in its place, bristling slightly as the familiar scuffle of clumpy boots on the floor made it clear that Bernard's arrival was quite imminent.

Manny had reached a safe distance, armed with his faithful broom, when the distressed red curtain was flung irritably out of the way with a hoarse grumble of indignation. Bernard slunk in to his chair, his eyes bleary, his lip curled, peering contemptuously at anything that graced his line of vision.

"Morning Bernard," Manny smiled, sweeping the floors nonchalantly. With one cautious blue eye he watched Bernard glance at him with disdain.

"What's so good about it?" Bernard hissed, pushing his thick fringe from his eyes, coughing, and began to leaf through the pile of yellowing letters left on his desk.

"It's the first of April," Manny grinned, resting his broom against the wall.

"And?" The Irishman replied, briefly squinting at a torn electricity bill, shrugging, and chucking it in the bin.

"April first is my favourite day of the whole year, it's brilliant,"

"Why?" Bernard cocked his head with amiable interest. "Does your beard fall off? Oh, no, wait, maybe it's when you use that ballgown you keep under the stairs, the one you think I don't know about,"

"Very funny," Manny rolled his eyes, though his cheeks reddened slightly. "Why do you have to be such a killjoy?"

"I love being a killjoy, it's my favourite Newspeak term," Bernard grinned wryly. "And my favourite animal,"

Manny blinked.

"Don't you mean a mocking bird?"

"What? No, shut up. I have more important things to concern myself with than chatting with the missing link,"

Tossing the handful of letters in to the bin, Bernard held on to one, a particularly delicate cream envelope lined with pink lace. Wrinkling his nose, Bernard held it between his thumb and forefinger, at arms length, thoroughly repulsed by the sweet fragrance secreting from its careful folds. The envelope read, in careful, ornate print;

_Mr. Bernard Black & Mr. Manny Bianco  
Black Books  
Bloomsbury  
London  
WCI 28L_

Manny held his breath, watching expectantly, preparing for the worst. Inspecting it closely, Bernard raised an eyebrow, discarding the envelope without a word.

"Bernard?" Manny said softly, sidling up beside the silent man, timidly picking up the envelope and running his rough fingers over it. Bernard wasn't paying attention, a curiously tentative expression painted across his placid face, looking at the calendar pinned up behind his desk, staring at one particular box on the bottom row.

Sighing, Manny rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Not long now until she makes a fool of herself," Bernard muttered, hesitating a moment before jerking his shoulder away from Manny's hovering palm. Manny said nothing, drawing away, picking up the broom and continuing sweeping the floor, the envelope concealed in his breast pocket. Suspiciously, Bernard turned his eyes toward him.

"Don't you agree, Manny?" he asked, fishing in his bottom drawer for a half-empty bottle of wine that had congeeled in to an odd alcholic syrup. Regardless, Bernard poured in to his glass, swigging it down.

"Um, yes, no.. maybe? I don't really know, Bernard, I mean, I want to go the wedding--"

"You are_ forbidden_ to use that word in my shop! Along with no, autopsy and _considerate_," Bernard snapped.

"Really?" Manny laughed nervously, gradually edging away from the desk, backing up against the shelves. Narrowing his eyes, Bernard stood up, the wine glass clutched in his clammy fist.

"You know something, don't you? I demand to know what it is!"

"No! Bernard, I promise! I know nothing! ..I know about as much as.. this broom!" Manny held the broom up helplessly, fumbling. With a swipe of his hand, Bernard sent the bristled end flying across the shop, landing directly in a pile of sorted paperbacks.

"You want her to get married, don't you? I bet she's made you maid of honour, too!"

"Bernard!" Manny protested, attempting to cover his head. "She invited you too! She wants you to go! She loves you!"

At once, Bernard froze, arm raised above his head, dark eyes unblinking, his left eye twitching, his heart stopped dead in his chest.

He lowered his arm, stiffly, as Manny slowly reared his head from the safety of his arms. Minutes ticked away, and the two stood in silence, Bernard staring, brow furrowed deeply.

"_What?_" he croaked, his mouth dry; he felt faint, hand straying toward a shelf to steady himself. ".._What?_"

"She wants you to be there," Manny murmured, straightening up. "She's.. your oldest friend,"

"Just go," Bernard sighed, turning away from him. "The shop isn't going to open this morning,"

Shaking his head, black curls licking at the back of his neck and fingers ran through them, Bernard glared bitterly at his reflection that glimmered briefly in the windows. He sat down, immersed in his over-sized jacket, picked a book from his desk and began to read, the syrupy wine oozing in his glass. Manny stayed, cleaning up the flecks of wood scattered across the floor, hovering anxiously around the desk.

"What is it?" Bernard sighed, agitated.

"Well, Bernard, there's.. there's something I've got to tell you," Manny bit his lip, a rare occurrence, and also an obvious signal that he was truly nervous.

Folding his page, Bernard laid his book down, glaring at him.

"Yes?"

"I.. I invited Fran and her fiancée," Manny suddenly burst out miserably.

As if on cue, a slam of a car door echoed outside on the open street, and the cobbled sound of footsteps on pavement chorused through the shop. Bernard stared in disbelief, his face contorting from surprise to withering scorn. Manny giggled, trying to not to pass out.

"April fools," he wheezed.


	8. Close Encounter

A trembling hand laid down, a desperate drag on a crumbling cigarette, hands run through hair countless times, vacant stares, false smiles. The four inhabitants of the gruesome kitchen, sat uncomfortably close together around the perpetually small table. Once Manny had ushered them all in, brief introductions ensued, he had busied himself with making everyone cups of tea, laying out plates of stale biscuits, sharing the odd word here and there.

Brian was _awful_. Tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven, shirt impeccably clean, lightly tanned, attractive blue eyes, warm smile.

Even though Bernard had hated him long before he laid eyes on him, the resounding notion was that this man was completely unbearable. Still, Brian had shook Bernard's clammy hand, squeezed his shoulder as awkward male tradition insists, and had been making polite conversation with Manny, even offering to help him the tea.

Manny was practically _gushing_ over him.

Fran sat rather stiffly in her seat, handbag rested in her lap, delicate fingers toying with the straps, obviously dying for a cigarette. She avoided Bernard's eye, although occasionally glancing hungrily at the cigarette clutched between his fingers.

Bernard sulked in the corner, alternating between blood-curdling glares at Manny and long, wistful glances at Fran when she tossed her head, giggling softly each time Brian spoke.

"Oh, I _assure_ you, it was _all_ in good taste," Brian chuckled, sipping his tea, wincing only once at the foul taste; annoyingly, he seemed fond of emphasising words.

"I bet," Bernard muttered, although he hadn't listened to a word the man had said since he entered the shop. Fran narrowed her eyes, but her expression remained testily adoring. Manny took a seat beside Bernard, filling the gap between the two opposing men.

"Tell me Bernard, how does a man like you keep an in dependant business going like this?" Brian asked, grinning.

"It's not a business. Businesses have competent staff. And plaques," Bernard replied, tempted to kick Manny under the table. His long-haired assistant, like Fran, refused to look him in the eye, instead staring in to the opaque milky substance sloshing around in his mug.

"You _are_ funny," Brian laughed, slapping his knee. "You and Manny here, _what_ lovely guys,"

Raising his eyebrows, Bernard mouthed "_you owe me five quid_" to Manny whilst Brian's head was turned.

"When Fran _told_ me her best friend owned a bookshop, I had _no_ idea it was going to be.. this _cosy_,"

"Well, yes," Fran interrupted. "It's got a certain charm about it, I suppose,"

"It's absolutely _top_-notch," Brian said, turning to Manny. "And so are the employees. Tell me, Manny, how _does_ Bernard treat you? Is he a real _slave_-driver?"

"..Uh, no, he's.. fine," Manny mumbled after a brief pause, his eyes shifty. Brian laughed heartily, oblivious to the tension growing in the room. Bernard stubbed out his cigarette, thoroughly disgusted by the predicament he was in, fantasising about putting out the cigarette square in between Brian's eyes.

The humble conversation continued, Bernard choosing to ignore it, rather than be at risk of throwing up all over the table. Twisting around, he seized a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter, left open, along with a sullied glass, pushing his tea aside. Pouring himself a generous helping, he attracted Brian's attention.

"It's a little _early_ for that, isn't it, Bernard?" Brian laughed, shaking his head. Horrified, Manny and Fran gasped at the same time, each one turning in anticipation to see Bernard's reaction. The Irishman was still for a moment, then, grimly, his mouth cracked in to a vague, contemptuous smile.

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me," he hissed. "I'll be killing myself now,"

He rose slowly from the table, wine bottle tucked under one arm, and, silently, made for the stairs. Fran groaned audibly, leaving her bag on her seat, excused herself and managed to corner Bernard as he reached the landing.

"You bastard, the least you could've done was pretend you liked him," Fran whispered furiously as she cornered him against his bedroom door.

"I'm the bastard? That man is repulsive, a real wreck. I bet he wears ladies underwear when you're not around,"

"Bernard, I can't believe you! That's the man I'm going to marry!"

"Believe _me_, as long as he stays away from my shop, you have my blessings,"

Turning away from her, the bottle grappled to his chest, Bernard reached for the doorknob, but was stopped as Fran grabbed the lapels of his jacket, forcing him to look at her. She was pale was fury.

"The way you're acting, we might as well stay away for good," she said, wrenching the bottle away from him and tossing it over over shoulder. It landed, much to Bernard's distress, in Manny's laundry basket.

"Why don't you just do that, instead of showing off your latest catch in front of me all the time?" Bernard muttered angrily, her fingers digging in to his chest. She glared at him intensely for a few breathless moments.

"Bernard Black, you are the _worst person_ I've ever met," she muttered, then, tightening her grip on his jacket, yanked him forward; their mouths met as she kissed him, hard, fingers groping at his neck.

Astonished, Bernard wrapped his arms around her tightly, holding her against him.

Fran pulled away after a while, eyes flicking open, meeting Bernard's stunned gaze.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," she mumbled, cheeks flushing pink, adjusting her blouse. Touching his lips, not quite sure if the kiss had in fact happened, Bernard grinned broadly.

"How long have you wanted to do that?" he asked, almost giddy with pleasure.

"..I'm sorry, I have to go," Fran pattered down the stairs, discreetly, Bernard following in a happy stupor.

She stopped just as she reached the last stair, turning her head to look at him, her expression distant.

"A while. I've wanted to do that a while," she crooned, softly, before disappearing through the arch.

The two stumbled in to the kitchen, interrupting a conversation about pricing guns, or some subject deemed evidently pointless, between Manny and Brian. They looked up.

"Ah, _there_ you are, muffin. We were _begining_ to worry about you," Brian smirked, already standing, draping an arm around Fran's shoulder and planting an affection kiss on her cheek.

Bernard's smile evaporated instantly.

Guiltily, Fran murmured her excuses, taking Brian by the hand, and the couple left, hand in hand.

"It was _great_ meeting you!" Brian called merrily as he was forcefully dragged out of the door. Manny waved them away through the window, meeting Bernard in the kitchen; he was already guzzling his second glass of wine in as many minutes. He smoked a cigarette thoughtfully, head cocked to one-side, chin resting in the curve of his palm.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Manny chirped, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

"No," Bernard mused to himself, swirling his wine around in his glass, frowning. "Not bad at all."


	9. Revelations

An orange streetlamp just outside the window cast a faded glow on the wall above the bed, penetrating the glass, curving oddly each time a car rolled by, the growling engine dispersing in to the cold night. The room was mostly dark, shrouded in shadows that crept eerily across the floor, a TV screen flickered in the corner, the sound turned down low.

A haze of thick smoke had collected around the lightbulb, swirling up in grey tendrils from the ends of two cigarettes. The covers on the bed were kicked off, two pairs of shoes scattered across the ruptured carpet, curling at the skirting board. Two pale figures lay on the bare sheets, fully clothed, ever-changing light falling bleakly across their pale faces.

"Have you ever noticed the textures in Rolf Harris' face?" he asked, watching the TV with feigned interest, his voice oddly soft. "It's quite amazing, like the skin of an orange,"

"Bernard," she uttered a helpless giggle, her downy head laid across his chest. "Only you would notice something like that at a time like this,"

"What time is that?" he asked, though he certainly wasn't interested; his hand was cupped protectively around one shoulder, fondling a fraying strand from the collar of her blouse. She brushed him off, smiling to herself.

Slowly, she lifted her head and glanced at the digital clock perched precariously upon a cluttered bedside table, littered with an overflowing ash-tray, several crumpled magazines and two empty wine glasses. She slid a packet of cigarettes from the crowded surface and discreetly slipped in to her jean pocket.

"Twenty-past midnight. Christ. They'll be wondering where we are,"

She sat up, her spine protruding through the thin cotton veil of her blouse, inducing a curious eyebrow flicker from her companion; he ran a finger down her back, over the symmetrical lumps of vague bone, making her shiver.

"That's not what I meant," he said, remaining still, arms stretching out to the now vacant, warm space where she had been laying. She moved off the side of the bed, the elderly springs creaking as the weight was lifted, and wandered over to the window. She pressed her palm to the cool glass, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

"I know, but I can't be bothered to explain everything to you," she replied, a note of exhaustion.

Her hair was flattened down with static, and tearing his bored gaze away from the television, he watched her silhouette as she groped in her pockets for a lighter, a slender tube of tabacco hanging from her lips. She noticed him looking, and glanced back warily, half-smiling.

"Where is the bastard, anyway?" he muttered, sliding his legs out of bed, sitting up with a muffled groan; could hang-overs really start this early?

"If you're talking about Brian," she sighed, irritated at her lighter not working sufficiently. "He's on his stag night, up in Edinburgh for the weekend,"

"_Edinburgh?_ I should've guessed. What a worm, a snivelling pretentious little-"

"Bernard!" she suddenly snapped, glaring at him (he presumed) although, in this light, he couldn't quite make out her expression. It was probably a glare.

"What? What's the matter?"

"You're talking about the man who's going to be my husband," she hissed, trying to make up for the sudden outburst by lowering her voice. She drew closer, and he could just see the glowing end of her cigarette loom dangerously close to his bare cheek, threanening to sear (and most likely penetrate) his flesh. He shuddered at the thought.

"That doesn't make him likeable,"

"You're still not allowed to talk about him like that. Or at all. I have decided yet,"

"Why do you defend him, Fran? I bet you really hate him on the inside. I bet he doesn't know you smoke, even,"

"Shut up, Bernard," she turned, stalking back to the window and taking up her previous spot, half-leaning out of the open window, fanning the smoke away. The room was quiet for a moment, apart from the rousing sirens in the distance and the consistent demur of whirring machines.

"Do you even love him?" he asked, hands clasped between his bony knees, watching her intently with foreboading dark eyes. Her shadow stiffened, hand poised gracefully, shading her face from his scrutinizing gaze.

"Yes," she murmured, her shoulders tensed; after a brief pause, she added, truthfully: "As a friend,"

Abruptly, he stood up from the bed, lifting his jacket from the back of the arm-chair in the corner, slipping it on whilst trying to locate his shoes. She turned around, brushing a dwelling tear from her eye, composing herself; she took one last drag on her cigarette and flicked it, neatly, out of the window.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't sit here and watch you ruin your life anymore," he roughly pulled on each boot, not bothering to tie the laces; he almost fainted. A throbbing mess of alcohol and failure rolled sickly in his stomach, making him wince. _A concoction I'm not a stranger to_, he thought, _how depressing_.

"At least I have a life to ruin. What do you have? Nothing, Bernard. Nothing,"

"I used to have _you_, Fran. You were so intent on trying to fit in with the rest of your ignorant, normal friends, which you never will, that you forgot about who is really here for you," he shouted, regardless of the tranquility previously attained. Furiously, she stuck a sharp fingernail in his chest.

"You never even wanted me to get married in the first place! You never want me to do anything where there's the slightest chance that people will like me better than they like you,"

"You just end up hating them for being normal anyway! Admit it, Fran, you're a sociopath, just like me,"

"Bernard, you are completely ridiculous! Next you'll be saying you don't want me to get married to Brian, because you want me to marry _you!_" she laughed, hollowly, incredulously, shaking her head. He froze, his chest quivering with pain, a complex mixture of aggression and heartburn, and his eyes began to water. Slowly, she turned to look at him, a puzzled frown painted on her delicate face.

"Of course, what a stupid idea," he muttered gravely, backing away, towards the door. "How could _I_, of all people, ever love anyone, especially you?"

He left with a sharp slam of the door, making her jump; quietly, she returned to bed, collecting the trodden duvet that had been kicked half-way across the floor during the fight.

Laying in his musky warmth, she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, and waited for the tears to come. And they did.


	10. A Perfect Day

First off, I'd just like to thank everyone who's been reading this fic - I love reading your comments! - and also that I am deeply sorry I haven't been able to work on it.  
But, for those avid readers, I assure you, it's very close to the final chapters. (:

- - -

It began on a glorious morning. The sky was a light pastel blue, a canvas on which the creamy, fractured clouds rolled by, oblivious to the swarms of people congregating underneath them; shut away from the crisp May morning, where the rays of furtive sunshine spun like outstretched arms through the pristine windows of the luxurious hotel room, a willowy dark-haired woman stood before a full-length mirror, guzzling from a champagne glass and inspecting her reflection.

The dress, a slim-fitting cream number, bound at the waist by a purple sash, anauniciated her subtle curves, and for once, Fran thought she looked positively radiant. And yet, when she peered at the woman in the mirror, an excessively fake smile sculpted on her pert lips, she felt nothing but scorn. Draining the rest of the champange, she sighed, her shoulders rounding awkwardly.

Stumbling over to the window, she studied the masses of guests idly making small-talk outside the main entrance. In less than half an hour, she knew that the chairs would be arranged to surround her, and her bridegroom, and trap her forever. Her brow wrinkling in frustration, she realised, with an apt surge of dread, that this was exactly something _he_ would say. Nonetheless, she edged the window open, sticking her head right out, squinting as the turbulent sunshine threatened to blind her completely.

There were a fair few dark-haired men, dressed in sophisticated suits, often making large, pointless hand-gestures, but not one of them bore the hardened, contemptuous scowl that she had grown so fond of over the years. Wistfully, she lay her arms down on the windowsill, and sighed to herself. _What the hell had she gotten herself in to?_

"Darling?" a voice crooned, heavily swathed in a tipsy slur, from behind the door, following a slight ripple of knuckles on the wood. Jumping, Fran stood up straight, knocking the back of her head off the heavy frame. Clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle the obcenities purging from her lips, she turned, flattening out the creases in her dress, as her mother appeared in the doorway.

An excessively thin woman, dressed extravagantly in an exaggerated lilac three piece suit, whilst adorning the most curious of hats (that seemed to span the entire width of the doorway), smiled. Her eyes were a warm hazel-nut brown, and though she appeared relatively young, several coarse grey streaks were nestled within the roots of her tousled black curls. She tutted loudly, upon seeing the collection of empty champagne glasses that had accumulated over the course of the morning.

"Drinking this early? Honestly. You always _were_ like your father," the woman muttered, approaching her daughter confidently, picking a stray hair from her shoulders. "Drank like a fish."

"I only had a few," Fran protested, involuntarily glancing over her mother's shoulder, to check if there were any other unexpected visitors. Fortunately, her mother had turned up alone.

"I'll _assume_ they were for your nerves. Although I haven't the _slightest_ idea what you should be nervous about. Brian is a charming gentlemen. And so _articulate_!"

Fran suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, and instead feigned a simpering grin. The truth was, she couldn't stand her mother's patronizing manner, especially not a time like this.

"So, mum," she began, nervously picking at the hem of her gown, her eyes never leaving her mother, who was now trawling through the complimentary gift basket the hotel manager had sent up last night. _There's not much use_, Fran thought, a partially amused smile toying on her face, _I've already cleared out all the booze. I'm going to need it._

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't do that, darling. It's such a bad habit. I'm your mother, just speak to me," her mother's tone dripped sarcasm, and Fran felt her fists ball with anger.

"Sorry, I.. I was just wondering what you thought of this dress,"

Meekly, trembling under her mother's scrutiny, Fran did a simply twirl, sufficiently pleased when the dainty skirt didn't budge, even when she swayed. Her mother smiled, weakly.

"Mhm, charming. That colour looks simply divine on you, darling. Though, I am slightly disappointed you don't have any bridesmaids. Did you even ask anyone?"

"I asked!" Fran retorted, unable to stop an embarrassed blush gripping her cheeks. She folded her arms over chest, indignantly. "They were.. busy."

"Hm. I thought as much," her mother raised a plucked dark brow, leafing through a hotel brochure, muttering.

"Me and your father were deeply worried that you were going to ask that.. Irishman to come. How awful."

Fran threw her bewildered look, slightly surprised to hear her mention Bernard, as she herself hadn't summoned the courage to do so in a good number of weeks. She shivered, as the disturbing image of Bernard in a flouncy pink dress appeared in her mind, making her feel amused and sickened. She bit her lip, the soft pink of her lipstick smudging over her chin.

"Still," her mother continued, choosing either to ignore the startled expression that was painted across her daughter's face, or to simply not understand. "I'm glad you didn't. He was bad news,"

"..I suppose you're right, there," Fran sighed, recounting the last evening she had held a proper conversation with the infuriating man, and even that had ended in an argument. If fate wanted them together, wouldn't they have been able to work out these flaws long ago? And even then.. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt herself being watched. She was currently facing the corner of the room, the full-length mirror to her left, so she couldn't check to see if anyone were behind her.

Her thoughts trailed off abruptly as her attention turned toward the door. Her eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise.

"Excuse me," her mother interjected, before Fran could even muster the energy to respond, irritably clawing at a miniature soap bar. "Can we help you?"

"Um, yes, actually," the stranger said, slightly wary from the hostility being emitted from the woman in the ridiculous purple hat. Fran could barely contain her excitement, almost elbowing her mother out of the way.

In the doorway, the familiar slouched accomplice of the world's worst bookshop owner stood, dressed in a hilariously shabby suit, the actual elbows having been sewn in odd tartan fabrics. The mane of golden wispy locks was flowing over his rounded shoulders, and fidgeting, he held a carefully wrapped parcel in the palm of his hands. The Metallica shirt he wore under the jacket was strained over his stomach, obviously shrunken in the wash.

"Manny!" Fran proclaimed, throwing her arms around his shoulders in a loving, tight embrace. Manny blushed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, beaming.

"If you don't mind me saying so," he grinned, even the stubble of beard seeming to have been combed. "It looks like a perfect day for a white wedding!"

Fran laughed, too happy and relieved to worry about the awful joke. Her mother sniffed, wrinkling her nose, and went back to ransacking the gift basket. Manny eyed the woman curiously for a moment.

"So, um, Fran," he said, gradually turning his attention back to the bride, grinning. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Fran was already pushing him out the door, waving her mother off. "God yes!"


	11. Whiskey

Just a note; Sorry I haven't updated in such a while! :C I've been very busy with schoolwork and such.  
I promise though, if it kills me, I will get this finished in the next few weeks.  
Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments! Enjoy this chapter!

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A sultry West London bar, the type of place where the carpet is always filthy with the trodden scars of burnt-out cigarette stubs, the walls decorated with crudely painted signs indicating the prices of the cheap drinks, packed with enough alcohol to induce an early grave, and squirming with the dull synthetic lighting that incessantly hums overhead; a kind of place where only the desperate, in need of something bitter to quench their thirst, their woes, are welcome, drowning their troubles in shabby allotments across the sticky counter. Today, the deserted place was lit with yearning golden streams of sunlight, furiously pushing their way through the shivering gaps of drawn curtains, quiet apart from the odd murmur of hoarse voices, the sharp clatter of arranged muggy glasses, and the flicker of dead lighters springing back to a wary, short-lived flare of life.

The bartender, a stocky middle-aged man, roughly-thirty at an unassuming glance, due to the crinkled lines framing a pair of diluted grey eyes, scrubbed at the counter scathed with a thousand pairs of hands, long since gone, and watched the passive group of people that dared stoop in to a place such as this. Despite the garish interior, he held a fierce pride for the bar, and often regarded it holding a trampy, though lovable charm, in its cracked leather booths and dim atmosphere.

It was mostly regulars at this time in the afternoon, just past lunchtime, where anyone who had a job to go to was already settled at their comfortable desk jobs, or the insanely bored housewives of midday turmoil stared listlessly at the flickering forms adjusted on their TV screens, too conservative to turn up in a bar in the middle of the day, no matter how much they wanted to. The bartender smiled with an nonjudgmental stare, serving drinks in his quiet manner, and scanned the oppressive bar for an unfamiliar face.

And on this particular afternoon, he just happened to find one.

A stiffly sat figure slumped over the slick counter at the very end of the bar, where the clawed wood met the dark crimson wall. His arms where lain limply in a lazy circle around his single glass of wine, which stood empty, alongside a murky green bottle, a bony white hand clasped around the thin glass neck. From where he stood, the bartender could only make out the prominant outline of shoulders, cloaked in a long black coat which dangled helplessly from the stool edge, a blearly white face, and a straggle of inky hair that licked at the exposed neck, sprung out in rebellious tufts.

Curious, the bartender threw the grubby dishtowel he had used to brush at dried glasses, mostly out of boredom over his shoulder, and hesitantly strode over to the crushed figure. He hadn't noticed the man walk in, or even serving him, and felt it necessary to inspect him on close range, or perhaps offer to refill his glass. Feeling eyes upon him, the man looked up, and a pair of contemptuous brown eyes crushed any wisp of friendliness that could be established between them. The bartender stopped, awkwardly hovering, his mouth dry.

"What do _you_ want?" the stranger rasped in an unimpressed mutter. A vague Irish slur underlay the choked voice.

"You alright there?" the bartender asked nervously, clasping his hands over his gaunt chest, the tacky black apron wrapped around it making it difficult for him to rest his dry palms comfortably. The man recoiled, a hand still wrapped aggressively around the wine bottleneck, those scrutinizing eyes widening in bemusement, clouded with suspicion.

"What business is it of yours?" he said, raising a dark brow. The bartender offered a weak smile, feeling incredibly alienated.

"Sorry, I was just wondering.. you don't look that great, if you don't mind me saying," he replied.

The man paused, gradually sinking back into his stool, his skinny shoulders almost disappearing within the folds of his shadowing coat. Despite the sweltering heat in the bar, and the glare from the overheated bulbs flickering, he seemed to be wearing three or more layers of clothing undettered, all black; a grotty jumper knotted with flecks of raw coffee, a dusty dinner jacket blotted with roughly sewn repairs, and of course, the lank woolen coat. Oddly, underneath the layers, the corner of a crisp white blouse peered from under his rumpled collar, the mild hint of a swanky suit.

"I don't feel great," the stranger murmured, swigging straight from his wine bottle. The bartender cocked an eyebrow.

"How much have you put away since you got here?" he asked, eyeing him, and the grubby carpet surrounding his stool, with a wary eye. "I don't want you puking on my floor, if that's alright. It's me whos' going to have to clean up."

The man simply shook his head in reply, throwing his mass of dark curls in to disarray, the thin damp strands clawing at his haggard cheeks with a tame affection. He rolled his dark eyes, muttering something in a bleak Irish garble, and drank deeply from the bottle.

"Could be anything by now," he managed to say, clinking his teeth on the coloured glass. "No matter. I'm a _professional_."

The bartender watched, aimlessly wiping at the counter, trying to distract himself from staring in bewilderment at the stark, haunting face looming in front of him, creased with worry and obvious discontentment, searching for a word of comfort. Instead the bartender cleared his throat, turning away from the odd customer, uncomfortably shuffling. When he swivelled back, the man was still slouched in his chair, having barely moved, staring accusingly at the swirling patterns of the carpet.

"So," the bartender said, his voice light and overly friendly. "Did you just come from a wedding or something?"

Suddenly something changed drastically in the man's impassive expression. Physically, he flinched at the word _wedding_, his head cocking sharply, striking the bartender with a threatening glare of intense hatred. Startled by the reaction, the bartender took a few rough steps away from him, the small of his back colliding with the back of the bar. Seeing this, the man's hostility drooped, as he lowered his eyes, sadly.

"No," he said limply. "No, I.. it was more like a funeral. But I decided not to go."

"O-oh," the bartender managed to stammer, inwardly cringing, embarrassed at his own ignorance. "I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter," the man replied dryly, obviously wanting to change the subject. He raised the empty wine bottle, setting it down on the bar with a hollow thud, exhaling heavily. The bartender twitched, awaiting.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked, folding his trembling arms over his chest.

"A scotch would be fantastic," a pause, before adding, quietly, reluctantly, his lip curling: "Thank you."

The bartender nodded, eagerly slinking down the bar, towards the racks of aging spirits, glad to be moving away from the stranger. He prepared the drink slowly, biding his time, his fingers clumsily trailing over the transparent glass. When he turned around, however, the warm whiskey sloshing in the tiny glass, the stranger in black was no-where to be seen. Wandering over to the spot where the short conversation had taken place, the bartender noticed a crumpled ten pound note stuck to the underside of the wine bottle.

Sighing, he set down the drink, fishing the money out from underneath. Something else was attached to it, concealed between the folded sides, slipped out from his grasp, and fluttered to the floor. Raising an eyebrow, the bartender bent to pick it up, and brought the strange article up to the light to inspect it.

In his hands was a square piece of card, a small rectangular slab of photograph. It was a blurry picture taken outside of a building, the exterior thickly painted in oily black, framing a large display window, headed with a sign that said clearly, in straight, white letters: "_BLACK BOOKS_." Outside, a young couple stood, their smiles mirroring each-others. The woman was slim, with short, sleek hair, her eyes an attractive brown. The man stood with a keen smirk plastered on his face, a thin arm draped around the woman's shoulders, the other hand rested awkwardly on the door-frame.

Frowning, the bartender flipped the photograph over, his fingertips delicately pawing over it. He was surprised to find a tiny inscription on the tiny card, written in hurried, curling handwriting, a dribble of black ink dwelling in-between the italic letters. The bartender couldn't help but smirk at the note, as he read it a couple of times in his head, then finally, out loud, in a subtle murmur.

_See, Bernard? You weren't always a miserable bastard._

_Love, always.  
Your friend, Fran._


	12. A Means To An End

Hi, everyone. First off, I apologize for not uploading anything more on this fanfic. Life just stinks.  
But, anyhow, enjoy the FINAL chapter of this fanfic. Thank you. xx

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On the cool, sombre breeze that whistled through the London streets that evening, making crisp, dry leaves scuttle over ashen pavements stained with the rain that had poured down earlier. But now the temperature was mild and pleasant, the sky tie-died a fanatical seasoning of crimson and vivid indigo. Under the snooping eyes of bowing streetlamps a woman strolled, apparently ignoring the beautiful unfolding sunset, thoughtfully twisting a solid gold band that was clamped around her dainty finger.

It often felt that way, that she were unable to wrench the damn thing off. Sometimes she wondered if it would ever take it off for good. Other times she wondered why she ever put it on in the first place. She shivered, wrapping her black trench coat tighter around her slim shoulders, suddenly aware of the icy night chill. She stepped over a gurgling gutter, and found herself wandering down a stretch of shops that she had once known, had once frequently visited, to see _him_..

Several months ago, after the wedding, Manny had sent her a five-page letter with the details of his disappearance. She had seen the tiny news slot he had gained, and for a while speculated that he would have hated the picture they had used, and the hoard of people that had gathered around the bookshop when the police finally broke in. Unsurprisingly, they had found all his belongings just where they were, filthy and covered in a two-inch layer of dust.

Manny had told her later that _almost_ everything was gone, aside from several shirts, four of his favourite paperbacks, six bottles of wine and his Joy Division records. She had cried when she returned home that day. Cried for all the times she had made him shut off his record player during business in fear the customers would slit their wrists with the pages of _Misery_ and _The Bell Jar_. She didn't cry any more. There was no reason to.

She was happily married, had been for almost an entire year; she had given up smoking and had actually been able to hold down a steady job. She had made sensible friends, _female_ friends, and held dinner parties with Brian and spoke with people who had been to Nepal more times than she had snuck out for a quick fag while Brian was serving the souffles. She was happy. She _was_ happy.

So, why now, as she ambled in the paltry dusk, squirming under the harsh neon glow of all the new, ultramodern bistros and mini-cafes that had opened up in the place of the rustic stores, did she feel so utterly alone? Brian would be waiting for her when she got in. She had phoned earlier, and made up some quick excuse about seeing _Susanne_ or _Phillipa_ or _Bridget_ for a late night shopping trip. Before she had met Brian, she wouldn't have been caught dead seeing those kinds of people, let alone-

Suddenly, she laughed, a strange, sorrowful giggle that sounded more like a sob. She was starting to sound like him again. Every so often she would slip in to a foul, brooding, misanthropic mood she would be unable to break for a few days. Brian acted like everything was normal. That was the smartest move.

Her clumpy, heavy steps led her on autopilot to the entrance of the old shop. The windows were boarded with large beige slabs and ugly slivers of black masking tape, and the sign had been painted over in blank white wash. No-one had bought the shop after Manny returned the lease to the landlord, possibly afraid that the infamous shop owner had died and left his angst-riddled ghost to forever roam the grubby shelves, aggravating eager-faced book-enthusiasts even beyond the grave. The thought provoked a tender smile on her lips, as her soft finger tips grazed the chipped surface of the front door.

"Looks like it's in pretty bad shape."

The intrusion made her jump, knocking her forehead in to the the thick wood. She cursed loudly, spinning around on her heel, a sweating palm planted on her temples. She was suddenly flustered, having been interrupted from her wistful stroll down memory lane; she was prepared with a particularly poisonous response when she stopped dead, the breath suddenly leaving her in an emphatic gasp.

Standing just beyond the curb, a shabby man stood, hands buried deeply within the beaten suede of his long black coat. Dusty charcoal hair spilled in to his sharp, unamused eyes that glistened furtively in the dim of nauseating orange streetlamp. His skin was a little paler than she remembered, or maybe she was just too used to fake tan by now to relish in his awkward paleness. His pouting mouth twitched in to a tiny, wry smirk. _His_ smirk.

"Honestly. I leave Manny alone for five minutes, and the whole place goes to the dogs."

"It..." She could barely speak, barely breathe. Her chest tightened and her stomach churned obnoxiously. "It's been more than five minutes."

"I know," he murmured, the tails of his coat flapping in a passing wind. He shifted from foot to foot, as if weighing up some inward thought, absently rubbing at an impatiently shaven chin. "But.. I couldn't come back. Not then."

"You.. you _bastard_!" Frantically, her hands wound in to tight, furious fists, and before she could help herself she had leaped over the pavement and tackled the man to the ground. She beat senselessly in to his chest, grinding her knuckles in to his ribcage, helplessly to the streaming tears rolling down her frost-bitten cheeks. He made no attempt to stop her, only grasped her wrists and waited until she had worn herself out.

Eventually the strength and rage and hurt left her and her shoulders sagged heavily, her chin nestling in the thundering heartbeat radiating from his laboured chest. Her arms found his waist and wound around them, clinging to him, the thin cotton of his blouse muffling her sobs. In return he hugged her tightly, pressing his cheek against the silky chestnut curls, inhaling her sweet, musky scent. For a while they lay there, blind to the honks and wails of cars in the distance. They were together, and that was all that mattered.

"I.. didn't know if you were dead or alive," she whispered in to nothingness, her long, dark eyelashes besotted with salty teardrops, her cheeks flushed a painful crimson. "I didn't know what to think. I.. I wasn't expecting you to turn up to the wedding. But. I wanted to see you."

"Really?"

"Of course. You're one of my closest friends, Bernard. And.. well."

"Oh no," he groaned, the breath leaving his damp mouth in wisps of mottled white. "Don't do it, Fran. Don't."

"Bernard, I love you."

She moved swiftly. His hands were pinned beside his ears and she was leaning over him, panting heavily, the bony kneecaps clamping his hips in place. He was vaugely startled, although he had known perfectly well what she was going to say, but the pounding of blood in his ears clouded his vision and made his tongue run dry. Twisting beneath her, he attempted to gather the strength to push her off, but found his limbs useless, succumbed to the cold and the intense glare he received. Weakly, he found his voice.

"Don't make me say it."

"No, Bernard. You've run away from your feelings before. I'm not letting you do that again."

"I'm sorry I hurt you. But please. Have mercy. Don't make me say it."

The pressure on his hands increased as she silently threatened to pierce his palms with her manicured nails; he growled, keeping his temper.

"If you ever want to see daylight again, Mr. Black, then just say it. Please. For.. for _me._"

"Fine! I.. I bloody love you, alright?"

His Irish bark had never sounded sweeter in her ears. She promptly released his hands, which limply trailed to resume their place, gingerly settled upon her hips. Her palm found the scratchy texture of his chin, gently tilting his head upward, and briefly, under the dank trickle of light above them shone down upon their tangled bodies, their lips brushed. A taste. Fingers met with tangled locks and pushed inwards, nails scraping against the scalp. Mouths opened, and jilted moans were muffled in the passion of the moment. After eons had passed, the kiss broke and both of them shuddered, staring at one another, grinning like manics. She spoke.

"That's all I ever needed to hear you say."

For a while longer they laid side-by-side, sprawled on their spines with the gentle curves of their temples resting lightly together, listening intently to the sound of one another's breathing, the freezing concrete beneath them unable to shatter the warm nest they had created within the folds of their dark coats. In the mess of wool and suede and cotton their pale hands fitted together as if they had been created just for the purpose of sitting in each other's palm. They watched the sun disappear behind the erratic zig-zag of rooftops, saw the night sweep in like jaded velvet and litter the vulnerable horizon with stars. They barely spoke, until her shivers roused him from his dazed happiness. He wrapped his sinewy arms around her shoulders and held her to his chest, savouring her presence, her fathomless love.

They would talk seriously later. She would ask where he had been, what he had done, possibly even if he had slept with anyone. They would talk about where he was to live. They would talk about Brian. They would probably talk about that last of all. Quietly, she felt the ring of gold bound around her finger, and it slipped in to her palm with ease. She deposited it without another word in to the breast pocket of his coat, and patted the small bump down. He understood her, as they had always done, without words.

Bernard Black had always thought words were meant for books, anyway.

_We fought for good, stood side by side,  
Our friendship never died.  
On stranger waves, the lows and highs,  
Our vision touched the sky,  
Immortalists with points to prove,  
I put my trust in you._

A Means To An End - Joy Division.


End file.
